


True Name

by callmekit



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, Headcanon, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29551512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmekit/pseuds/callmekit
Summary: Watson is keeping a secret, and Holmes wants to know what it is.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	True Name

**Author's Note:**

> Hello howdy! I’ve fallen in love with Holmes and Watson, and I decided it was finally time to make some content myself :o) this is really self-indulgent, but if a week goes by and I’m still happy with it and how I’ve written these characters, I’d like to try to write some more. I tend to write them as a mashup of the canon and Brett/Burke’s performance in the Granada Holmes series. Please feel free to tell me what you think!
> 
> (BBC Sherlock God bless but this is not written with your boys in mind :’o) I’ve watched exactly one (1) episode of the BBC ver but “Hamish” alone was enough to make me write a fic about Watson’s middle name)

“What does the H stand for, anyways?”

“Holmes?”

It was a lazy day in 221B Baker Street. The streets of London bustled about as always, undeterred by the miserable rain, but as for Holmes and myself, we were warm and dry inside the walls of our apartment. Cases had been few and far between the past weeks, but luckily, Holmes had resisted the black moods which usually enveloped him and was instead busying himself with some foul-smelling chemical experiment. He sat behind the racks of bubbling test tubes and beakers now, while I had situated myself in my chair with a book, leg propped up before the fire to stave away the aches that always came with the rain. Without looking up, my friend repeated his question.

“John H Watson. It is curious that I have never seen the initial spelled out before,” he mused.

 _Damn. Of all the things to be curious about._ “It stands for Harry,” I said. “John Harry Watson.”

A pause. Glassware clinked against the table as Holmes set down a vial, looking at me with amusement. “Harry was your brother’s name,” he said, and I grimaced internally. _Double damn._

“Yes, well,” I grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in my chair, “my mother was rather fond of the name. Family heritage, you know. That sort of thing.”

Holmes was staring at me fully now, and I resisted the urge to turn away under his silver gaze. A smile quirked at the corner of his lips and, had I not been considering fleeing to the safety of my rooms, I would’ve taken a moment to register its beauty. “You’re lying to me, my dear fellow. Out with it. What’s so mortifying about a middle name that you would rather sign all your legal documents with a nonsense initial?”

My furtive glance at the door only made him smile wider. He steepled his delicate, blemished hands together and I suddenly realized very keenly what it must feel like to be a specimen under his microscope. To be the sole object of Sherlock Holmes’s study was in equal parts terrifying and intoxicating, and to my horror, I found myself blushing as I answered into at the floor.

“It isn’t exactly a... traditional name, Holmes. My mother had peculiar tastes when it came to some things, and she was always so stubborn, too, really resolute when she wanted something a particular way.”

I was stalling. Holmes said nothing, only nodded along and waited patiently.

“It’s, well- oh, you’re really going to make me say it!”

My friend laughed, short and harsh, and the mirth of it made me feel incredibly silly. I found myself finally grinning along. “It’s Grace,” I admitted with a small shrug. “John Grace Watson. No H.”

“Grace,” he echoed.

I chuckled, more embarrassed now by the unnecessarily secretive way I’d acted than by any actual shame, and continued, “Yes, it’s not exactly a usual name for a man. Or a young boy for that matter, something my primary friends noticed right away. I changed it to something else as soon as I was able.”

But Holmes was no longer listening. His silver eyes had gone somewhat glassy, focused on an unknown point somewhere over and behind the back of my chair. He drummed his fingers together before snapping out of his reverie with a quick nod, returning to his post behind the towers of bubbling chemicals.

I sighed and settled into my chair, picking up my neglected book and feeling strangely put-out that he’d dropped the conversation so quickly.

“It fits, you know.”

I blinked. Holmes was still buried behind his beakers, and yet his brow furrowed as I watched him, twirling an empty tube as he drummed with his free hand on the table. “The number of times you have allowed me to impose on you, along with your unshakable disposition towards forgiveness... ‘John Grace Watson.’ Yes, it fits.” He said this all so quietly I surely would have missed it if I was not listening. He said no more- I was barely convinced I had not made it up- and was gone, vanished once more into his endeavors to create the most odorous experiment this side of London.

We talked no more about it, but the quiet admiration I thought I had detected in his voice, and the gentleness of his words, filled me with a warmth I knew not how to identify for a very long time.


End file.
